College Wry
by LibertyBellJar
Summary: Daria and Jane are clinging onto their friendship, but when everything-and everybody-in their lives turns out to be volatile, they either have to take a risk and go with the flow, or try desperately seeking normalcy
1. Raft of the Medusa

**Author's Note: **_This story takes place in the spring following the events of "Is It College Yet?" and in the "canon" universe. I can be empty-headed when proofreading, so please let me know if I made any factual or mechanical errors._

_I claim no ownership of or association with "Daria" or the creators thereof. This story contains profanity, drug/alcohol use, and sexual references, so the faint of heart/weak of stomach/children-whose-parents-shouldn't-be-letting-them-on-the-internet/etc., etc. should look away now_.

* * *

"You weren't kidding about the food," Jane observed, swirling a few strands of spaghetti around her fork. "Raft does not take its cafeteria lightly."

"They don't spare any costs," Daria agreed, "and those non-savings get passed on to the consumer, meaning I have to eat those bulk Cup o'Noodles my dad sent me."

Jane shuddered slightly. "I'd rather eat the Styrofoam cup itself, personally."

"And miss out on the synthetic shrimp?" Daria drained the last of her green tea, and forced some more teriyaki sauce out of the packet and onto her less-than-authentic noodle dish. "Have you heard anything from Fort Sloane lately?" she asked.

"Nah," Jane replied, clearly indifferent to the subject. "Tom doesn't have much…motivation to speak with me anymore."

"Why not?" Daria's interest had been piqued, but not enough to aggressively pursue the topic. "I really haven't heard from him recently, either."

"From what I've gathered," Jane continued, shifting a bit uncomfortably in her seat, "he has a new lady caller, and she doesn't like him getting 'friendly' with any former flames."

"We're former flames, huh?" Daria mused. "I always imagined I'd be remembered as the pinnacle of neurosis who left a permanent negative impression of all brunettes."

"Oh, I'm sure that's his pet name for you," Jane responded dryly, "I was just using the common vernacular."

A silence befell the table after this exchange, not out of any awkward lapse, but rather a mutual remembrance of all the things, attractive and otherwise, that that relationship had wrought.

"Are you going back to Lawndale for spring break?" Daria interrupted the lull.

Jane snorted. "My parents are in Australian studying aborigines domestic crafts, Trent is with them seeking inspiration amongst the crashing tides and monotremes, and you're sitting right here, so there's nothing to compel me to return there." She paused to pop a piece of breadstick in her mouth. "You're not going back to that cesspool of good health and prosperity, are you?"

"Not exactly." Daria tried to gather a good explanation. "You know how the high schools have the break later than us?"

"Mm-hm."

"So, Quinn really wanted to visit, and get a little bit of time away from the parentals and in an…environment like this, so after we're well rested from the break, it looks like Lawndale is coming to is."

Jane blinked and set her utensils onto the table. "I refuse to condone this huge breach of all that is good and holy," she informed Daria.

"I don't have a choice, truthfully," Daria attempted to clarify. "My parents told me this was happening, and I'm still dependent on them, you know, financially."

"Ah. Since you have a practical, if selfish, motive, I'll let it slide," Jane smiled. "But, back to spring break: I didn't really have plans to go anywhere…"

"Neither did I," Daria declared, feigning surprise for Jane's amusement. "We could have some fun, wholesome roadtrip adventure…"

"Like _Thelma and Louise_!" Jane remarked, feigning cheerfulness in her turn. "Or we could go to the next town over where nobody knows us, find someone who will buy us alcohol, and have deep, existentialist discussions while shitfaced."

"It's a plan then," Daria adjourned, rising to ceremoniously throw away the trash.

* * *

Quinn looked out the window of the living room, not really seeking anything, just pretending to be occupied so no-one would bother her. A party was raging in the Morgendorffer household, although, as the utter lack of beer and bodily fluid stains would attest, it was relatively tame.

As spring break, and, ultimately, graduation, rapidly approached, Quinn felt herself drifting. There had been some comfort in being a sessile creature in the popularity ecosystem, but as she went loose, despite enjoying her burgeoning independence, there seemed to less meaning in her school life.

"Kuu-win," Sandi intoned, snapping Quinn out of her momentary solitude. "I think we need to do something about that _thing _oozing all over Stacy."

Quinn passed her gaze over to the sofa, where Upchuck has all his available appendages grasping at a blindly flattered Stacy. She was inclined to agree with Sandi's sentiment.

"Isn't that guy supposed to be at college?" Quinn questioned.

"He _is_," Sandi replied, before ominously continuing, "at _Lawndale Community_."

"Oh god." Quinn felt herself moving to the couch, her old ways of superficiality and borderline classism beginning to surface. Stacy was, for all intents, her _friend_, and she couldn't let her be involved with someone who didn't even go to a university or liberal arts school or something.

"Upchuck. _Get out_." The young man looked away for the first time in quite awhile from Stacy's figure, and found himself looking at a wrathful expression on the face of the hostess.

"Miss Morgendorffer, I hope you're not the _ice queen _your sister was—"

"This party is for seniors," she snapped, pulling him up by the scruff of his neck. "Jeffy, give me some help."

All three J's came to Quinn's service at her beckoning, and carried Upchuck out hog-style to the curb.

"He really liked me!" Stacy whined, her eyes following her brief companion's pathetic attempts to pull himself up.

"You'll thank us later, Stacy," Sandi assured her. "His hair would _never _go with anything you'd wear."

"I guess so," Stacy whimpered a bit, dragging herself to the kitchen for more chips, and possibly dip.

A look of regret crossed Quinn's face, but Sandi shook her head. "It's tough love. As president and vice-president-"

"Sandi, the fashion club's been obsolete for nine months," Quinn reminded her.

"As the acknowledged leaders of the Lawndale High uppercrust," Sandi continued, looking slightly perturbed, "it is our duty to practice tough love."

"And safe love!" a tipsy young fellow lying on the floor called out, "like Lady GaGa said."

"Keep your condoms to yourself, _please_," Sandi hissed.

"Aren't they fashionable now?" Tiffany wandered into the room. "Like those ones with the _plaaaid_ on them?"

"Ooh, if they made cute ones like that, I might use them!" a female partygoer giggled.

Quinn returned to the window, tuning out the frustrating conversations of her classmates. She appreciated Sandi's (slowly) blossoming maturity, but it couldn't be avoided that most of the people there hadn't progressed mentally since they'd stopped taking naps in school.

Quinn felt an almost imperceptible wave of nausea, and shook it off. She was almost beginning to think like Daria.


	2. Love The Sinner, Hate The Sims

**Author's Note**: _Here's the second installment, for your enjoyment. I'm dead serious about letting me know of any factual or grammatical errors, or embarrassingly poorly written passages. (I take my humble pie ala mode, FYI)_

_I claim no ownership of or association with "Daria" or the creators thereof. This story contains profanity, drug/alcohol use, and sexual references, so the faint of heart/weak of stomach/children-whose-parents-shouldn't-be-letting-them-on-the-internet/etc., etc. should look away now_.

* * *

Tiffany and Stacy stood idly by as Quinn lay a few articles of clothing into a suitcase.

"I thought you weren't leaving till spring break?" Stacy remarked, fiddling obsessively with a split end.

"Oh, I'm not, I just want to be prepared," Quinn explained. She grabbed her spare straightening iron and tossed it in.

"Like the boy scout. Who became a senator," Tiffany observed serenely.

"Wasn't that from an episode of _Boston Legal_? But in, like, the thirties?" Stacy asked, not distracted enough with her hair to completely ignore the conversation.

Quinn sighed and closed her luggage. "It was a _movie_, and-"

"Hey kiddos!" Jake leapt into the room unannounced, as was his wont. "Tiffany, you left your phone downstairs, and it's been ringing off the hook."

"God, Dad, phones don't have hooks anymore." Quinn had snapped back into her old, comfortable persona.

"Oh no! I have to get it or he'll disappear!" Tiffany took off at a quick pace—for her—and left the rest of the party mystified.

"Does she have a boyfriend now?" Stacy inquired.

"You sure ask a lot of questions," Jake commented.

"_DAD_!Stop eavesdropping on us!" Quinn snapped. She spun around to pick up another, smaller suitcase. "_Now_!"

Jake sulked out of the room, and Quinn couldn't help but notice the hurt expression on his face.

She and Stacy stood awkwardly on opposite sides of the room before the latter ventured, "I'm a little concerned if Tiffany has a boyfriend…"

"Yeah," Quinn agreed, taking a seat on her bed. "I mean, how many guys have tried to take advantage of _us_, when we're, you know…" she wracked her brain for something polite. "More socially apt than her."

Stacy nodded her head. "I don't know if it's anyone from school. Like, why would they be starting anything this close to graduating?"

"I think you're right," Quinn replied. "We need to find out if she's seeing anyone, and what his deal is. Get Sandi on the phone."

With the speed of a military communications officer, Stacy had Sandi's number splashed across the screen of her blackberry, and handed it off to Quinn.

Thanks to many years of rigorous practice, Quinn was able to text, "We have a situation," in a matter of seconds.

Sandi responded quickly, though her dexterity in texting was the one arena where she didn't even try to compete with Quinn.

She admitted she had also fostered concerns about the fourth-former-Fashion-Club member, but hadn't said anything about because, as she eloquently put it, "you, like, never know what the hell is going on with Tiffany." Now, however, there was a reasonable doubt, and the three of them decided to meet at the mall after school and determine a course of action.

* * *

Daria's roommate was sleeping soundly on her IKEA bed contraption, blissfully unaware that it was five in the afternoon. Daria was not close with her, and she was grateful for that, but she had come to the conclusion that the co-ed's ability to stay up for three days at a time and then sleep for twenty-four hours was the result of some synthetic substances. Since this enabled Daria to game on her laptop in all her free time, she had no complaints.

Following a successful day of morning classes, lunch in the union with a delightfully morose existentialist philosophy-major, and some studying of post-Franco Spanish architecture, Daria had retired to her dorm to play a session of the _Sims _full of fiery revenge, mayhem, and the ultimate triumph of the oft-suffering intellectual. It did not come as a pleasant surprise when she heard someone rap on the door.

She answered the door, perturbed that her limited relaxation time was being disrupted. Fortunately, on the other side, there _was _a pleasant surprise: Jane.

"You look like you've been up too long," Jane commented.

"You look like you haven't been up long enough," Daria retorted.

Jane craned her neck to look inside the room. "And it looks like your roommate hasn't been up at all."

"Trust me, in about ten hours, she will be _up_," Daria assured her. She stepped back to let Jane in, and went to turn off her computer before she could see what was on the screen. She was not swift enough, however, and Jane raised an eyebrow.

"Games again," she observed. "Do you even associate with other people when I'm not around?"

"I had lunch with Herbert today," Daria defended herself.

"And who's that?"

"He's a philosophy major from France," Daria explained. "He says he was a child prodigy, and he takes no issue with the _Sims_."

"A stormy French intellectual type?" Jane remarked, her eyes taking on that twinkle that came with teasing. "If you're not doing that, I'll give it a shot."

"I don't think his boyfriend will like that," Daria replied flatly, and Jane didn't make jokes about it after that.

They whisked themselves out of the dormroom, feeling more than slightly uncomfortable about the comatose roommate, and stopped at the end of the hallway.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" Daria asked. The two leaned against a wall, preparing for the oncoming conversation. "You said you'd be busy all month with your non-art classes."

"Oh, psh. Like I was going to pass calculus anyway." Jane stopped before continuing to try to muster a smile to match her joking tone. "But, you know, aside from lunch the other day, we haven't seen each other a lot lately. I miss our old adventures."

"Well, they did get repetitive after awhile," Daria pointed out, "but if you want to wander around and bitch about the dark outlook of our futures, I'm more than up for that."

Jane cracked a genuine grin. "I think I'd like that too."

So, then, they left the dorm, and ambled aimlessly about the campus, and held an enlightening, if equally aimless conversation, promising to spend the shortly arriving spring break together.

* * *

Sitting in the passenger seat of Jane's dilapidated sedan, surrounded by the static-dominated music of the local college station, Daria glanced out the window and saw a sign that promised only twenty more miles to Bridgetown, Massachusetts.

"When you said 'a bit of a drive,' I didn't realize you meant forty miles along a congested highway," Daria declared snidely.

"But two girls with _good _reputations like us wouldn't want to get caught misbehaving in our own college town," Jane smirked.

"The only reputable thing I've done is to do nothing worthy of garnering a reputation," Daria declared.

"That was quite a feat to pronounce," Jane commented. She glanced off the road momentarily to see Daria smiling faintly.

"I wouldn't do something as insane as majoring in English if I didn't have a knack for it." Daria's expression turned serious again as she continued, "It sucks that our different…academic choices have been keeping us apart, and I wasn't that into in this little trip at first, but I'm really glad we're spending time together." Narrowing her eyes, she added, "And you'd better not tell anybody I'm sentimental in the slightest."

Jane smiled in return before replying, "There's nothing to do at Raft anyway."

Daria scowled in response to this. "Hey, I don't fuck with your alma mater, you don't mess with mine."

"I love it when you tell me not to insult the very things you deride all the time," Jane snickered. "Like Quinn."

"Say the name again, and I _will _turn around, but I won't be bringing you with me," Daria threatened.

Jane continued laughing at Daria's quasi-joking vitriol. "If you're so nice now, just wait till we get a few drinks in you!"

Daria could only roll her eyes and began to fiddle with the manual tuner of the radio. Her finger slipped, sending them from their alt-rock refuge to the area's National Public Radio station.

"With tuitions ever rising, and admissions standards growing harsher than ever, it's hard to imagine students staying optimistic," a female anchor was broadcasting, "but today we'll talk to a number of engineering and science students from Boston University-"

Jane became a bit antsy and turned off the radio.

"I don't want to be distracted while driving," she gave as an unconvincing explanation.

"It's NPR," Daria protested, but seeing that Jane was still slightly anxious, she dropped it.

The road stretched on for another twenty-two miles, not the twenty promised, and, to both Daria's and Jane's relief, they made it out of the car and into the parking lot of a generic strip mall with their friendship intact.

"It looks like there's a movie theater, or…something…there," Jane offered unhelpfully.

Daria grimaced. "Raft doesn't seem so dull now, does it?"

Jane shook her head with conviction. "Look, there's a sizable college here, so if we get closer to it, there'll be _something_."

"What if it's not a college at all, but a clandestine training facility for nun spies?" Daria asked. "Like that one on _Sick Sad World_."

Jane blinked before soliciting, "What's _Sick Sad World_?"

Daria's eyes enlarged in horror, but Jane's laughter cut her off before she could express her dismay.

"I'm joking!" Jane cackled. "God, Daria, you're too gullible for someone as cynical as you."

Daria glared at her and began walking ahead, in the direction of the largest cluster of buildings she could see.

"You're walking the wrong way!" Jane called out, pointing to the correct direction.

Humbled, Daria turned around, and she and Jane walked together toward the campus. As they neared a relatively safe-looking club, Jane lifted her cellphone out of her pocket to check the time.

"Nine o'clock, on the hour," she announced to Daria. "Most of these spots aren't even open now, you know."

Daria had to defend herself on this. "I told you, I wanted to leave early because I have this _crazy _idea that marauding around a town we don't know anything about at three in the morning is dangerous—"

"Shh! Don't advertise the fact we're not from around here!" Jane grabbed Daria's arm and headed for the club. "Besides, that place is opening now, and the sign say eighteen-and-up."

Daria shook Jane's hand off of her arm, but she still followed her into the club. As they reached the entrance, Jane was happily rambling about the lack of cover charge, and Daria was doing her best to swallow the uncertainty buzzing in her head. The pair found their niche in a corner, and tried to look natural as they surveyed their surroundings.

"You're sure tense," Jane noted of Daria. She shrugged off the comment, and Jane felt a twinge of sympathy. "Hey, I think a band's playing here tonight. It'll be fun."

"I guess so." Daria looked out the window, seeing more economical cars and bicycles than had been there before. She realized, briefly, that if it weren't for Jane, she would never do things like this. Impulsive, scintillating, _social _things. And she didn't know whether to hate her or thank her for that.


	3. Schnockered and Bothered

Nick scratched his head, newly dyed blue, and, for the tenth time, took a look around Trent's basement.

"Um, guys?" he finally sputtered. "Where're our instruments?"

"Some other criminales prol'ly heard how hard we are!" Max began shouting. "And they wanted to stop us before our music could change the—"

"Shouldn't we call Trent and tell him his house was robbed?" Jesse inquired anxiously.

Nick rolled his eyes at this idea. "Nah, he's in Australia. It's not like he'd be able to hear us."

Max and Jessie started snooping about clues by turning over storage crates and looking in the washer and dryer, and Nick ran upstairs to make sure nothing else was pilfered.

Several minutes passed, and Max and Jesse found nothing but unsightly, hand-knitted socks. Nick ran down the basement stairs, his expression more perplexed than normal.

"Nothing else was taken," he reported. "The TV, the computers—"

"Not even the foosball table?" Jesse interjected.

"Not even the foosball table," Nick repeated through clenched teeth.

"I'm still calling the police," Max declared with conviction, and he whipped out his cell phone to do just that.

"No one told you not to," Jesse pointed out, but no one responded to him. He sighed forlornly before looking up Jane's number on his own phone.

* * *

Daria was counting the number of drinks Jane had squeezed out of a gregarious graduate student's impromptu and probably contraband bar. She was only three down, but was already dancing wildly to the stylings of some lukewarm local group, much to the discomfort of her fellow clubgoers.

Daria was gripping her beer, her _only _beer, like grim death, having taken her mother's overzealous lectures concerning roofies to heart more than she'd like to admit. Jane had no such trepidations, evidently, and Daria witnessed her attempting a "Single Ladies"-inspired dance move before nearly slugging a young man who came a bit too close.

Soon enough, Jane retired from the dance floor, and everyone was much relieved. She pulled a stool up next to Daria, panting from exertion and grinning like a loon.

"Someone can't hold their liquor," Daria grimaced.

"Oh, Daria, darling, Daria, don't talk about me like I'm not here," giggled Jane. "You need to unwind, and, and, de-_tense _your muscles. We should make this a fun-ass girls' night."

"It's all fun-ass and games until the police catch you underage drinking."

Jane rolled her eyes, but not before slurping down some more of her drink. "Nineteen-year-olds drinking is to the cops as intelligence is to MTV viewers."

Daria couldn't suppress her smile when she replied, "I admire your ability to make coherent analogies while completely schnokered."

Jane began giggling again. " 'Schnokered' is an awwwwesome word. Sch_na_-Shh-no-nock…"

"And there goes the coherence," Daria lamented.

Jane bounded out of her seat to begin dancing again, but stumbled over an extension cord that had just been put into use by the underpowered band.

"Assholes, putting power cords everywhere," Jane muttered, stamping back to Daria with a slightly bruised ego.

Daria gave Jane a sympathetic look, mainly to keep her from starting a rant. Jane flung herself back into a stool and began playing with one of the buttons on her pleather biker jacket.

Daria looked off to her side, and noticed a spindly young man approaching them. His unruly mop of black hair contrasted harshly with the smooth lines of his pale face, and he looked quite timid, though Daria had to guess this was at least somewhat artificial. She cringed inwardly, knowing Jane would be enamored with such a creepy personality.

Except that she wasn't. He smiled shyly, though not ambiguously, tapped her on the shoulder, and received only a cold look for his troubles.

"I don't do this often," he started off, his confidence shaken following the cool reception, "but if you could give me your number-"

"And if I could figure infinitesimals, I could rule the world," Jane rolled her eyes. Seeing that the man was still standing there, she gave him a shooing gesture. "I can't enjoy myself when you're standing there open-mouthed like a cod." He walked off in a hurry.

Daria half-expected Jane to smirk in self-satisfaction, but, just like the moment before, reality defied her predictions. Jane, instead, turned back around and sat there looking very somber, or, as Daria reflected, as serious as a drunken person mysteriously covered in confetti can look.

She studied Jane for a moment before informing her, "I think you're as unreadable as James Joyce."

"Didn't he invent that beer?" Jane asked in genuine confusion. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Nothing," Daria sighed. "But I think I have a 'get out of listening free' card for the next time you start a diatribe about corporate sponsorship of art exhibitions."

"Mm-kay," Jane smiled and settled further into her seat.

Her relaxation was cut short, however, when Daria noticed a minimal movement in her jacket pocket.

"I think your phone's vibrating."

"Oh, _that_'_s _not a phone." Jane began giggling, but, upon seeing Daria's complete lack of amusement, muttered, "Kidding," and pulled her cellphone out.

"Helloooo?" she answered. She paused to listen to the other end, then gave Daria a strange look and covered it with her hand to announce, "I can't really tell, but I think it's Jesse."

Daria raised an eyebrow. "Why don't you just check the caller id?"

"It's hard to see with all the lights flashing around…let's just go outside."

Daria very willingly trailed Jane out the door.

Jane turned on the backlight, and sighed loudly. "It's Jesse."

Putting the phone to her ear, she demanded to know why Jesse saw fit to disturb her evening.

She stood there looking unmoved, and possibly quite irritated, until he said something that triggered a horrified response.

"What? _Today_?" she shrieked. She put the phone down temporarily and yelled, "Daria, our basement got robbed!"

"Basements don't get robbed, they get burgled," Daria amended her, and Jane made a movement to throw the phone at her.

"Don't be a smartass now, I'm—keep your pants on Jesse, I'm still here!" She shot a deathly look at Daria and jumped back into the tumultuous conversation. "Well—good! But double check my room anyway!" A vexed expression crossed her face here. "No, I don't care that the foosball table is intact."

Daria decided that compassion would be the wiser route to take, and asked, "Did they take anything important?"

Jane shrugged and covered the receiver. "It doesn't look like they took the TV's or anything, but all the Spiral instruments are gone." She frowned and continued, "But I don't exactly trust the three of them to be eagle-eyed about this."

Daria nodded and let Jane go on with her chat.

"I _know _you're trying hard, Jesse," she asserted unconvincingly, her increasing weariness becoming obvious. "Just please call the police. _Please_." She ended the call and gave a Daria a look of relief.

Daria stood in silence for a few moments, watching Jane trying to yoga breathe herself back into a good mood. "I'm…sorry about all that."

"It's not your fault that my house…and family…and brother's friends are so fucked up," Jane waved it off. She looked back at the club and cringed. "I don't feel like going back in. I embarrassed myself pretty badly, didn't I?"

"Your moments of clairvoyance more than make up for any of that," Daria assured her. Jane smiled, albeit grimly.

"We need to leave this place," she decided after the pair deliberated for a bit. She started walking off in no particular direction. "Find some new stomping grounds where we can drink ourselves sick. With fewer spectators."

Daria relaxed her tensed shoulders in relief, glad to get away from the swarming, poorly ventilated club. Nevertheless, she told Jane, "I still prefer getting wasted in the safety of my own room."

Jane frowned at this and replied, "Everybody knows safety kills fun like…something…and something else…oh, screw it, I'm too tired for anymore literary devices."

Daria returned this with an agreeable silence, and they continued walking to the closest liquor store, which, of course, was open and bustling at eleven in the evening.

"I'm pretty sure they check ID's," Daria warned Jane, who was eyeing the shop lasciviously.

"_We're _not buying any alcohol," Jane scoffed. "That creepy guy over there is." She pointed at a man sitting on a bench on the exterior side of the store, wearing a battered flannel shirt and a bulky knapsack.

"Is he homeless, or some uber-cool urbanite?" Daria asked dryly.

"Either way works," Jane replied cheerfully. She walked briskly up to the man, masking her edge of nervousness with an over-the-top aura of coolness. Daria could only shake her head at this.

Whatever it was Jane said to the man, he was clearly enthusiastic about it, jumping out of his seat, snatching the cash she offered him, and running into the store. Bewildered, Jane stood perfectly still and watched him rush in.

She waved at Daria, who relented, and walked up to Jane and sat with her on the bench.

"What are we getting?" Daria asked, her tone indicating that she was still not thrilled with the situation.

Jane shrugged and responded, "I didn't get to talk to him much. He said he'd get something in a pretty package."

"It'd better not be schnapps," Daria grumbled. "The last time you talked me into that, I ended up with someone else's retainer in my mouth and my parent's sofa on fire."

"You didn't like my pyromaniac performance art?" Jane replied with mock surprise. "I guess you lose your artistic taste when you sobered up."

"When it comes to art, I think the emperor has no clothes," Daria deadpanned, "because you burned them off."

Jane started laughing, much more than she would under normal circumstances, and didn't stop until their sketchy associate returned with the booze.

"Thank you," Daria nodded at him brusquely, taking the paper sack. She took Jane's arm and walked away as quickly as possible without drawing suspicion.

"What did he get us?" Jane inquired, straining her neck to look over Daria's shoulder.

Daria stopped in her tracks to open up the bag and peer inside.

"I dunno, a couple little bottles. One looks like tequila," she replied, closing the bag back up, "but no worm in it."

"Damn," Jane remarked profoundly. She stepped up to Daria's side and scanned the periphery. "There's some park over there," she observed, pointing in the general direction. "Let's go find a bench."

It was fast approaching midnight, and, in her continued fear for their safety, Daria made the trip to the nearest bench as quick as possible, and, finding one bottle to be cheap whiskey, unscrewed the cap.

She stared at the liquor, and heaved a dismal sigh. "How are we supposed to drink it?"

"Right out of the bottle, I guess," Jane answered, puckering her brow in uncertainty. Tentatively, she took the bottle into her own hand and muttered, "Here goes nothing." She took a swig and winced.

"Ugh, it burns!" she rasped.

After gagging for a few minutes, she cleared her throat and handed the bottle back to the Daria.

"Try it!" she ordered cheerfully. "It will do _wonderful _things to your throat."

Daria shot her a dirty look and said nothing. She turned the bottle in her hand a few times, apprehension rising in her stomach.

"Oh, Morgendorffer, you haven't outgrown your tight-assed-ness," groaned Jane. She glanced to her side to see if she'd elicited a response.

Daria sat in silence for a moment before muttering, "Goddamnit." To Jane's glee, she shut her eyes, and tipped the bottle back.


	4. You & Me Could Write an Ayn Rand Romance

"Should I eat all this?" Stacy gave Quinn a pleading look, then cast her eyes down on her tray of french fries and hamburger sliders. "Ohmigod, I shouldn't eat all of it, I'm _such _a fatass-!"

"You're not fat," Quinn assured her firmly, although, mentally, she was bellowing at her to shut the hell up about the food. Little Stacy Rowe could kvetch like no one's business.

Stacy pouted. "I know. I just hate shopping for clothes with a bloated stomach."

"We're not really here to shop for clothes," Quinn reminded her.

Stacy was about to comment on the general vileness of rompers when they heard the familiar deep voice boom behind them.

"OhmyGOD, Quinn, I texted you, like, five times, and you didn't reply." Sandi gave her a suitably cross look and plopped herself down in a chair at their table.

Quinn couldn't help noticing the dark bags under Sandi's eyes, or her worryingly disheveled appearance, and Stacy seemed to be struggling to make sense of the loss of Sandi's confident exterior.

Quinn cleared her throat. "So…er, we were gonna talk about Tiffany?"

"Oh, right! You said she was in with a bad crowd or something?" Sandi was making an effort to be involved, but her eyelids were slowly drooping.

"We don't know exactly," Quinn admitted. "But you know how it's been, she keeps not showing up when we make plans, and acts all secretive when we ask her about it. Plus, she started painting her nails _grey_."

Stacy cringed and Sandi sighed, "I noticed that." She leaned in closer to Quinn. "The last time I was at her house, she had three bottles of _Juicy _perfume, and she hadn't opened _any _of them. They were just lying around like…like _garbage_!"

"Those poor Juicy bottles!" Stacy grieved.

Looking at Stacy, and back to Sandi, Quinn felt the need to call for action.

"We should confront her," she proposed. "We can sit here and speculat—I mean _guess_—all we want, but that won't go very far."

She half expected Sandi to make a snide "_Gee_, Quinn" comment, but the former president had grown beyond that—or more, likely, had grown too tired to argue—and gave Quinn an acquiescent shrug.

"Oh, Quinn, you're so assertive!" Stacy beamed.

Quinn smiled in appreciation and took one of Stacy's French fries, chewing slowly and trying to think.

Sandi noticed Stacy's smorgasbord for the first time, and mumbled, "That's a lot of food," before grabbing a handful of fries.

Stacy sat there, stunned that the other two had started stealing her food, but eventually came around and started eating a slider.

They were happily wallowing in the greasiness, but this, sadly, ended when they heard another familiar voice.

"Oh, uhhhhh—I didn't know you'd be here."

Sandi, Stacy, and Quinn froze, their hands holding fries in mid air. Turning around, they spotted Tiffany, who'd just entered the food court from another corridor.

"Right back at ya," Stacy squeaked.

Tiffany stood there uncomfortably, uncertain whether to approach them or leave.

Sandi spied a suspicious looking shopping bag, and whispered to Quinn, "Where's that bag she has from?"

Quinn squinted. "I think it says… 'Desiree's Dungeon'?"

Stacy looked scandalized.

"GOTH?" she mouthed, receiving a corroborative nod from Quinn.

Sandi sucked in her breath in shock. Almost involuntarily, she ordered, "Tiffany! Get over here _now_!"

Reluctantly, Tiffany strode over to them and made some small effort to look friendly.

"Hiiii."

"What's in that bag?" Sandi demanded, not wasting any time.

Tiffany tried to hide it behind her back. "Nothinnnng."

"_Tiffany_! Gimme that bag!"

"I'm…holding it for a friend!" Tiffany swung it to her other side when Sandi stood up and approached her.

"You have friends besides us?" Stacy asked in genuine surprise.

Realizing Tiffany would soon flee, Quinn shouted, "Sandi! Give her some space!"

Sandi stood her ground, appearing to tower over Tiffany—even though they were close in height—and glared openly at Quinn. However, much to the amazement of the other girls, she soon composed herself, and calmly smoothed out her blouse and sat back down in her seat.

Tiffany placed her hands on her hips and made a petulant face, although she only looked vaguely surprised, as she always did when trying to express complex emotions.

"I can shop where I want," she told them flatly, waving the Dungeon bag at them, the end of a studded belt hanging out.

"Why don't you take a seat?" Quinn asked graciously. She gave Sandi a warning look before adding, "Nobody will jump at you."

"It's always nice when people don't jump you," Tiffany conceded, taking a seat opposite Stacy.

"Your…eyeliner's nice," Stacy commented uncertainly.

"It's too thick," muttered Sandi.

"What have you been doing with your hair?" Quinn asked gently.

"Not taking care of it," Sandi grumbled.

Quinn felt she'd be toeing the line by telling Sandi to more or less shut her trap, and, resigned, she sank into her seat.

"I'm _still _the fashionista I was before," Tiffany glared at Sandi, although no one could take her seriously when she wore that strange surprised expression and using the word "fashionista".

Sandi sat up, and even though she looked none too pleased, she appeared to be a bit more at ease with Tiffany. "Well, you _need _to carry yourself with a little more grace."

"What's grace got to do with it?" Quinn sighed.

"We are the _debutantes _of Lawndale!" Sandi declared, apparently mortified that Quinn hadn't acknowledged their social standing. "_We _are the best this town has to offer!"

Several people at the peripheral tables had turned around in their seats to watch them by now, either in annoyance, or in consternation.

"Sandi, we go to a public school," Tiffany stated frankly.

"Yeah, I think the debutantes go to Fielding," admitted Stacy. "Or, probably, there _aren't _any debutantes in Lawndale."

Sandi's face sank and she crossed her arms. "Maybe. But it's not like we should let the rest of the school know that. What do we have there if we do?"

Quinn made a sour face at this, but the others didn't—or pretended not to—notice.

"Well, I think we can all agree it's pretty good to be where we are," Stacy tried to cool the tension. "I mean, like, in the social pyramid thing."

"Yeah." Sandi's expression began to brighten. "We could be like Quinn's _sister _or something."

Sandi, Stacy, and Tiffany began laughing, much to Quinn's resentment.

"Hey!" she cut into their merriment. They were startled by her harsh tone, and she nervously quieted down. "I mean, Daria's a cooler person than you think."

The other three sat and stared at her in dumb silence.

Sandi and Stacy traded uncertain looks, and Tiffany felt compelled to tell her, "Quinn…that's _mean_."

"I'm not being mean!" Quinn protested, but she knew already her arguments would have no effect.

She forced a smile and grabbed her purse from the floor.

"Guys, you should, like, hit that sale at Aéroposeur, right? I think it's three-for-one on cami's!" She stretched her smile to nearly maniacal proportions. "I don't have much money, so I'm just gonna head home. My mom's already on her way here, you know how she is about curfew!" She laughed hollowly.

"Oookay." Stacy gave her a worried look, but Quinn only turned away and left the table hastily.

"I didn't mean '_mean_-mean'!" Tiffany called out to her uselessly.

Sandi dropped her head to the tabletop, shaking the napkin dispenser.

"I thought this crap was over with the Fashion Club," she groaned. A brighter thought occurred to her. "At least it's Tiffany's _boyfriend's _fault this time and not _mine_."

Tiffany attempted to scowl.

"I don't haaaaaaaave a boyfriend!" she insisted.

"Who called you at Quinn's house, then?" Stacy asked, feeling little joy in possibly coming to the end of the mystery.

Tiffany squirmed. Softly, so that she could barely be heard, she replied, "A friend."

Sandi sucked in her teeth in exasperation. "A _boy_friend?"

Shaking her head, Tiffany continued, "We're really _jussssst _friends. Like, he knows a lot about life, and I have lots of good ideas, so we comprehend each other.

"I think you mean comple—" Stacy realized trying to correct Tiffany was pointless, so she sighed and asked, "Are you _sure _this isn't going to lead to anything?"

Tiffany scrunched her nose. "_NO_. He has the worst car _ever_." It was clear that that settled that.

"You could have just _told _us," Stacy pointed out.

Tiffany's eyebrows drooped. "I don't think so."

Sandi looked up and demanded, "Why not?"

"I don't know, you guys." Tiffany shifted about in her seat. "I'm, like, buying freeeeak clothes, and I've met people you'd think were weird, and I didn't want to get kicked out of the Faaaashion Club."

"There isn't a Fashion Club anymore," Sandi cut in.

Tiffany's eyes widened considerably. "Ohhhhh yeah."

Stacy leaned gently toward her.

"Would it possible—I mean, could we, maybe, possibly, meet this guy?"

Tiffany and Sandi looked upon Stacy with surprise, then back to each other.

"It…_would _be really reassuring," Sandi admitted.

Tiffany cupped her chin her hand, contemplating this.

"Hmmm," she murmured several times. Sandi and Stacy weren't feeling rude enough to tell her to stop.

She finally turned to Sandi and rather sternly told her, "I dooooon't want you butting in on anything, though. I reeeeeally don't like how controlling you get about other people's social liiiiiiiiives."

Stacy, evidently remembering Quinn's party, gulped, but said nothing. A look of embarrassment crossed Sandi's face and she nodded at Tiffany's request.

"You can see him, then," Tiffany consented. "We're meeting tonight, but it's going to be reeeeeeeally late."

Sandi waved off any time-related concerns. "My mother will be too busy with my _brothers _to notice I'm out."

"And my parents just don't care!" Stacy chirped up brightly.

"Ooookay, then." Tiffany took out her cellphone to check the time. "We don't have to leave for a couple more hourrrrrs…"

"Oh my gosh!" Stacy clasped her shoulders. "We can use the time to let you show us your new outfit!"

Tiffany reached into the shopping bag and removed a garish purple bustier.

"Like thiiiiiis?" she asked, practically oblivious.

Horrified as they were, Sandi and Stacy smiled politely and nodded their heads.

* * *

Daria was lying backside-down in the grassy front of some store, her glasses missing along with her senses. Jane was lying somewhere to her left, giggling uncontrollably at a sign for a restaurant called "Bonur's Subs and Salads."

Daria forced herself to sit up, and felt as if her head would fly off clear into space. Obnoxiously lit up storefronts spun like so many gnats around her head, and a few co-eds who hadn't gotten as smashed as her or Jane were pointing at them from across the street.

"Be assholes, and take a picture!" she yelled at them, although the words came out in a garbled mess. "It'll last and you'll be assholes longer!"

This only made the onlookers laugh harder, and they refused to budge. Jane was laughing along with them, in spite of her not knowing what was going on.

"Let's go!" Daria stood up on treacherously unstable legs. "Those…those _assholes _are mocking me…I don't know! I'm always the one doing…doing the mocking!"

"Daria! Just go with it!" Jane gasped between cackles. Daria more or less accepted this suggestion, and the pair more or less stumbled down the sidewalk until they grabbed onto a modest statue of some unknown rich, white man for support.

Regaining some balance, Daria stood independently, albeit swaying somewhat.

"Jane…do you know where your car is?"

Her query was lost in a vortex of happy ramblings and titters on Jane's part, followed by hoots from the bystanders upstreet.

Daria let a sigh escape her. Something similar to selfawareness had returned with the balance, but not enough to cause any great alarm about her inability to get back to Raft. There were only the horrible students, and Jane's stealthily grating laugh, and the light emanating from the used bookstore up ahead…

The used bookstore. Something strange in it caught her eye. It was the person coming out of it. She scrambled through the pockets of her grey blazer, and her glasses fell into her hand. She mumbled some thanks to god for not allowing her to lose them, and slipped her specs on her face. It took only a moment to recognize the man exiting the bookstore.

"Ted?" she called out in disbelief.

He turned around, clumsily holding onto the weathered textbook copies he'd just purchased. He did a double take, then smiled broadly.

"Daria!" he exclaimed exuberantly, then added, "Morgendorffer!"

She mustered a smile. "DeWitt-Clinton."

She glanced behind her back, and saw that the cluster of students had moved onto greener pastures, and Jane was staying put. She walked briskly up to Ted, laboriously trying to stay steady on her feet.

He looked strangely at her unusual gait. "Are you okay?" he asked innocently.

"What?..Oh, yeah." Daria smiled again, and had to wonder if Ted wasn't growing suspicious in her newfound contentment. "You know, I've been…you know, cramming for tests."

Ted nodded, and seemed to accept this at face value. "Yeah, I'm probably going to have to cram pretty soon," he continued. "I needed to get these books-" he stopped to gesture at the bag in his hand, "-about a month ago, but I put it off until now, so…"

Daria's ability to listen and interpret was falling in and out, so she just nodded back placidly. He wasn't saying anything that warranted a response, evidently, since he didn't stop talking or try to prompt her to _start _talking.

"Oh yeah. Books. You know books and me. Can't keep my nose out of books."

Ted laughed. "I haven't gotten much pleasure reading, lately. I guess it's harder to enjoy _Moby-Dick _when it's being forced down your throat."

Daria tried to keep a straight face at Ted's unusual choice of words.

"Oh, _Moby-Dick_," she yawned. "Too long, too much technical know-how; I never actually finished it. Same for anything by Ayn Rand. God knows why they wrote such bloated books."

It was now Ted's turn to nod dumbly and pretend to follow the conversation. Daria peeked behind her again, and saw Jane slumped on the ground. This added to her unease, and she cut Ted off. "I'm sorry, I think my friend needs my help," she began, but before, she turned around, an idea struck her. "Do you have your phone?"

"It's in my room," Ted replied regretfully.

"Nevermind, I have some paper." Daria pulled a napkin out of her blazer pocket. Being the sober one, Ted caught on and handed her a pen.

"Okay…there." Daria handed him back the napkin, now complete with her number, which was nearly illegible.

"Um, thank you," Ted smiled courteously, and realizing that any future communication might be cut short by his inability to decipher Daria's number, gave her his own.

"I'll see you," Daria waved dreamily, walking back to the statue. The delightful delirium, and impairment of all senses, was washing over her again, and it was with some good luck that she didn't fall flat on her face on the way back down the sidewalk.

Jane looked up from the ground. "Daria!" She gave her a puzzled look. "Why are you…up…there?"

"I saw someone I knew."

Jane was clearly still a little cloudy, but her face lit up. "Where?" Jane strained to look beyond her, catching a glimpse of Ted walking away.

"He's wearing khakis," she observed. "What a dipshit."

She attempted to stand up, but ended up hanging across the torso of the effigy.

"What was that…that _square _doing out so late?"

Daria rolled her eyes at Jane's slang, but decided to humor her friend. "He was at that bookstore up there."

Jane regained lucidity for a moment and asked, "What type of bookstore is open at-" she checked her watch—"two in the morning." She paused, then answered her own question. "I bet it was a porno shop!"

Daria flared up at this accusation. "He wasn't shopping at a sex shop!" she contended.

Jane tried to raise an eyebrow, but found the maneuver too tricky and gave up.

"You _suuuure _care a lot about this guy's reputation," she smirked.

Daria put her hands on her hips, and, even though she wanted to stand tall against such allegations, her knees were nearly giving out, and she was forced to collapse onto the ground.

As much as she hated admitting her own limitations, Daria was forced to admit she was at the end of her rope. Physically, at least.

"We really need to find a bus," she nudged Jane.

"But we have my car…" Jane caught herself before going on. "Oh. I guess a bus_ would_ be useful."

Daria nodded, feeling an unexpected pang of sadness at the thought of the night drawing to a close. "It's been a fun night, but you know…"

Her voice trailed off as Jane looked behind, spotting a sparkling stretch of water.

Daria pulled herself up, and tried to tug Jane off of the statue, to no avail.

"I'll follow behind you," Jane promised her, and Daria had gotten too tired to argue with her.

Daria walked out on for a couple blocks, mesmerized by the ever changing pattern of mulch lining the sidewalk, and adamant on not taking a tumble.

Eventually, she remembered she had a friend, and turned around to check on her. There was no one to be seen.

"Jane?" she called out. She wasn't horribly worried, but, considering her, or _both_ of their states, Jane's disappearance was not auspicious. "Where aaaare you?"

No response. Unhappily, and fearing she would miss the last bus out, Daria began walking back to where she last saw her companion.

She continued calling out her name, but no one answered. When she came to the statue, the entire block was deserted. She allowed herself to collapse again, and began flipping through her contacts. When she tried to call Jane, she was informed her number was unavailable.

Short of finding a police officer—which would probably lead to a discovery of underage drinking—Daria had found herself out of options. She leaned against the statue and bitterly regretted that Jane had all the booze.

She heard strange noises beyond the stone parapet at the edge of the street. Squinting, she noticed a sizable pond and something causing rather severe ripples.

At this point, she was desperate for anybody could tell her anything, so, with surprising nimbleness, she climbed over the barricade and strode to the edge of the pond. Indeed, it was a person flopping about, and Daria tried to get their attention.

They were laughing hysterically, but apparently heard Daria, and swam over to her.

"Jane?" Daria stooped to the ground and gaped at her. "What in the _fuck _are you doing?"

Jane tried to stifle her laughs and mumbled something about how they never went swimming anymore, and Daria snapped that they never swam _period_. Jane was no less giddy, however, and began floating on her back.

"Water's fiiiiiine!"

"There's no way we're making that bus now!" Daria was throwing her arms about in an uncharacteristically emotional fashion, and Jane gave up on suppressing her laughter.

Against her better judgment, Daria waded knee deep into the water and guided Jane out.

"Isn't it cool and wonderful?" Jane chattered cheerfully.

Daria simply gritted her teeth and resisted the temptation to dunk her friend's head underwater.

"Hey, guys, look at this."

* * *

Max pulled up the grubby rug, upon which the instruments had previously sat. Lo and behold, there was a small, handwritten note, which had likely gotten wedged underneath the rug while the members of Mystik Spiral ran amok in the basement.

"Lemme see," Nick replied, but before Max could hand it to him, he snatched it up.

His eyes opened wide in shock.

Jesse chose this moment to descend the stairs, and was left in wonderment as to why Nick and Max were standing in silence. "What's going on?"

Nick walked up to him and handed him the paper.

"It's from Trent," he answered, surprisingly solemn. "I don't know _why_, but he says he got back from Australia earlier today-"

"And packed up our equipment," Max finished for him. "It's at the convention center, apparently."

"Uh-huh," Jesse nodded his head. "So, we're gonna call the cops and let them know we found the thief, right?"

"No!" Nick seemed ready to smack Jesse. "We're hauling ass out to the convention center to meet him and, assuming he's still there, see what the big deal's about."

Jesse checked his watch. "Is it even open at eleven?"

"I-don't-_know_. That's why we have to get there quickly."

Jesse shrugged off Nick's growing antagonism. "You could have just said so."

At this, the three of them took off running—or, at least, walked at what was for them a brisk pace—up the stairs and to the Tank.

* * *

**Author's Note:** _I just wanted to quickly thank everybody who's written a review or alerted/favorited this fic so far. It's a nice ego boost, but, more importantly, it makes writing so much more rewarding._

_And Ted's line about Moby-Dick wasn't meant to sound so strange, I swear!  
_


	5. MidAtlantic Manic Caffeine Addict

**Author's Note: **_I changed my penname from LibertyxIsxLove to LibertyBellJar between chapters, so hopefully that didn't cause any confusion_

* * *

Working the graveyard shift of the local twenty-four-hour convenience store could not be said to be the most favorable job in the word. But, the way the young clerk saw it, you had your perks. Witnessing the craziest of the crazies, for example, as he was now.

One of the two soaking wet girls before him merely glared ferociously when he smirked, "Having a fun night, ladies?"

The one with black hair slurred, "You knooow you want in on this action," and gestured angrily at herself. Her friend sighed in embarrassment.

"Just get us some paper towels, please. _Lots _of them."

She didn't look like the type to be messed with, so he quickly headed to the inventory room to grab the econo-pack of paper towels.

Once he was out of hearing range, Daria gave Jane a sideways glance.

"Once we're, you know, not entirely drenched, how are we getting back to Boston?" she asked, taking on a harsh tone.

"I don't know." They had just been greeted with a glowing "CLOSED" sign at the bus terminal, so that was out of the question. Jane pondered for a moment before suggesting, "Hitchhiking?"

"I think that's a great idea. Ever since I was a little girl, I've dreamed about becoming another statistic."

The clerk returned from the back with the paper towels.

"Eight-fifty," he announced.

Daria threw a few crumpled up bills at him, picked up the paper towels, and mumbled something about keeping the change. She and Jane exited the store before he could stop them.

Once outside, they found a public restroom and went to separate stalls to tidy up. Daria chose this moment to begin ranting.

"Goddamnit, we're over an hour away from Boston, and now we're going to catch pneumonia because of your—your _stupidity_! And we can't even stay in a hotel because you gave all our money to the _bum_—!"

"Daria, calm _down_," hissed Jane. "People can hear you outside."

"It's three in the morning, damnit! The only people out right now are even drunker than you!"

"Stop it! We're gonna get out of here, okay?"

The restroom fell into silence after that, and Jane had to assume Daria was pushing her anger down inside of her, as per usual. They finished drying themselves and walked out to the dimly lit sinks.

Jane opened her mouth, and Daria, knowing she was about to propose a way out of town for them, told her sternly, "We are not hitching a ride."

"The more you refuse it, the more likely it is to happen. That's statistics."

"There really isn't any hope for you in math, is there?" Daria began wiping her glasses on her shirt, more to distract herself than anything else. As much as she was playing the part of the adult, her thoughts were crumbling fast and she was achingly sleepy. Jane wasn't going to hold up much longer, either.

Placing her glasses on her face, she put forward slowly, "Maybe—_maybe_—if we're really careful, and _really _focused-"

"Holy shit!" Jane gasped joyfully. "We're going to _hitchhike_!"

"It's not fun!" snapped Daria. "We're putting ourselves in a lot of dangg…" she was stumbling over the words, and her forcing her heavy eyelids to stay open. "A _lot _of danger, and this is only because we have no other rezzz…sort."

Jane slung an arm over Daria's shoulder, and the pair marched out of the bathroom, carrying the remaining paper towels and booze.

"We're going to look pretty suspicious," Jane remarked, looking at the liquor and paper tissue.

Daria cast a doubtful eye on Jane's red mini dress and jacket combo. "Yeah, but not for the reason you think."

Luckily, the central square of the town, where their night of activity had deposited them, was at an intersection of several major roads, and they were able to sit down in front of the "No Pedestrians" sign at the side of an on ramp.

"We should probably have some light," Jane mumbled, and she fumbled around in her pocket until she had her cell phone.

"Why aren't your calls going through?" Daria asked, too bored not to talk, and too tired to think of anything more stimulating.

"They aren't?" Jane cocked her head to the side. "Oh, wait. I think it's water damage."

"Figures."

Jane turned it over in her hand. "I think I'll keep it, though. It has a nice color-"

"CAR!" Daria screamed, jumping up and pointing at the highway.

Jane flipped her phone open, pointing the paltry ray of light at the road. Daria waved her arms frantically in the direction of the oncoming headlights.

The man inside the car slowed momentarily, gave them a surprisingly frightened look, and sped off into the night.

"Damn." Jane dropped her cellphone to the ground and took a seat beside it.

Daria leaned against the sign post, and began counting the dashes on the road until they all blurred in the distance. Her counting didn't last long, of course, because it seemed everything was blurring.

"I think there's another car!" Jane yelled out, after what felt like an eternity.

The two jumped off the ground, and began waving hands and lit up cell phones, though not as aggressively as previously.

A dilapidated station wagon pulled to the side of the ramp, and a frantic but genial young woman rolled down her window.

"Do you guys need a ride?" she asked, slurping down a can of gas station energy drink.

The elated expressions on Daria's and Jane's faces were more than enough explanation, and the woman babbled on, "I'm Shania, and I'm not, you know, a _creeper _driving around at this hour." She drank some more of her concoction. "I'm just _soooo_ into my work, and yadda yadda, I actually live in the Boston suburbs. _Weird_, right? My job's at the state college here, and I needed to transfer onto the other road to get back-"

"We're at Raft and BFAC," Daria cut in, after her and Jane's anticipation had gotten too high. "Can you get there?"

"Of _courrrse_," she smiled broadly at them. "But first things first…" she paused ominously. "Neither of you are _murderers_, are you?"

Daria and Jane gave each other uneasy looks, and Shania burst out laughing. "I _had _to ask! Oh my god, when is the next time I'll be picking up hitchhikers in the dead of night! Oh lord!" She unlocked the doors. "_Giiiit _in!"

Without any objections, they did as they were told.

"You drive a lot?" Daria asked, her usual sarcasm replaced with sincere fear. Shania had just taken a hairpin turn at a breakneck speed.

"Yeeah," she giggled. "I used to drive semi's, but I had to quit 'caussa the trucker culture. I mean, amphetamines get to you after awhile."

Jane nodded solemnly, as if she understood exactly what Shania was talking about.

Daria rested her head on the window, the blur of street lights and gas stop signs doing nothing to quell her nausea. She was frantically trying to reel in memories of what she'd done, but her recollection came in patches. She'd gulped down some tequila, and felt like dying, she remembered that, and then—there was something with a bookstore.

"Jane." Daria tugged on her jacket. "What were we doing at a bookstore?"

"I dunno. Why _would _we go to one of those? I'm waaaaay too cool to spend my night out like that."

"Whatever you say," Daria muttered, rolling over and slumping down.

She was close to falling asleep when she heard Shania exclaim, "Oh _fuck_!"

Both Jane and Daria sat straight up.

"What? What happened?"

Shania began muttering vehemently, "Those money grubbing, dickheaded…"

Daria and Jane gazed out the window, and saw a solitary BP gas station.

"Oh. That's all." Daria fell back into her trance.

Jane, however, was not so nonchalant about the matter, and quickly rolled down her window and leaned out.

Daria opened one eye. "Jane..?"

Much to her alarm, she was sticking herself out the window at waist's length. To Daria's further alarm, she extended a middle finger and began shouting, "Hey, you bastards!"

"Goddamnit!"

Daria yanked Jane back inside the cabin, and reached over her to roll down the window. "God_damnit_."

Shania was whooping and pumping her fist, and a horrified Daria shouted at her to keep both hands on the wheel.

"It's like dealing with two babies," she griped at them.

A few minutes later, she had to ask Shania to pull over so she could throw up.

She half fell out of the car, and bent over a thicket of wildflowers, yelling at Jane to get out and pull her hair back.

Jane placidly stood behind her retching friend, and remarked, "If this was a bad teen comedy, this would be the moment that officially makes us BFF's."

"God_damnit_, Jane!"

Daria had to brush her aside and knelt down on the ground after noticing her glasses had fallen off her face.

She found them, but not before inadvertently digging into an ant hill and Jane had asked several times if she was done puking. Once she was confident that there would be no more sickness, she led Daria back to the car.

Shania turned around in her seat. "You okay?"

Daria shook her head, and replied dryly "Not until I wash my mouth out with bleach."

"That sounds like something my grandma would do to me if she heard me swear," Jane joked, but Daria didn't seem to find the humor in it, preferring to recline horizontally in the seat.

Jane frowned. "Yeah, don't leave any room for me. Jesus."

Daria had come to pass into a stupor, so she didn't respond to this comment, and Jane accepted her lot and tried to get comfortable.

Shania smiled wistfully at them.

"God, I miss the stupid crap I did in college," she sighed.

Jane opened her eyes for a moment.

"Shania," she spoke up. "I-I love you and all, but put the Monster down…while you're driving. Mmmmm'kay?"

"Of course, honey," Shania soothed as if addressing an infant. Jane relaxed and closed her eyes.

Their driver smiled at them once more, and she reluctantly secured her drink in the holder, watching the moonlight glint off the dented aluminum.

* * *

The members of Mystik Spiral piled into the convention center, eventually finding the one ballroom that hadn't been locked. All of the lights were out, but they could sense a certain buzzing energy that indicated they were not alone.

Jesse scanned the entire room, but he couldn't see anyone.

"Helloooooooooooo..?"

Nick tugged at his sleeve and pointed to a makeshift stage at the end of the hall, with a curtained off area behind it, presumably to create some sort of back stage.

The three of them walked the length of the ballroom, eventually circling the stage. There was some rustling behind the curtains, but it was still shrouded in darkness.

Abruptly, they heard someone clear their throat, and the lights came on.

Their eyes widened at what they now saw lying on the stage.

"Our instruments!" Max shouted ecstatically.

The other two could only stand there dumbfounded, seeing their frontman appear on the platform.

"Hey! You're s'posed to be in Australia!" Nick called out, looking peeved and expectant of a satisfying explanation.

Trent only gave him an ambiguous grin and answered, "Yeah, but there was something waiting for me here in Lawndale." He stopped for a moment of reflection before adding rhythmically, "Something rarer than…a mermaid's tail/Like Helen of Troy set a million ships to sail."

"Couldn't you just get a mermaid's tail from a regular fish?" Jesse cut in. For this observation, he received a sharp glare from Trent.

"The point is," he growled. "I have someone I really want you to meet."

At this, a girl stumbled out from behind the curtain, her unsteady gait caused by black high heels to which she clearly hadn't adjusted. She flattened the frizzles in her hair and smiled vacantly at them.

"Hiiiiii, band."

The three other members stared blankly back at her.

"Trent..?" Max felt his voice squeak higher than he'd like to admit.

Trent put an arm around the girl, who appeared to be swaying in the very slight breeze.

He introduced them after coughing for a bit. "Guys, this is Tiffany. Tiffany, guys."

Tiffany widened her vague smile. "Hiiiiii, guys."

Trent gave her a warm look and continued, "Tiffany's been a good friend and inspiration to me, and even though we've only known each other a few weeks, she's already agreed to do an awesome favor for the band…"

"Right," Max cut him short, crossing his arms. "I remember you gushing on about the same things about a certain member of The Harpies."

Trent bristled at the mention of his former girlfriend, but regained his coolness.

"Monique and I had a very…troubled relationship. I realized I should stay away from romance and that stuff for awhile, and Tiffany's been helping me with that."

"Yeeeah," she smiled at him. "It's soooo coolhow we talked about your problems on the internet. It was, like, a meet-cute"

Seeing that his bandmates were puzzled by this, Trent quickly explained, "Tiffany and I met on a chatroom about Lawndale life while I was on vacation."

Max raised an eyebrow. "Soooo…you met someone you wanted to hang out with who lived in the same town as you…through the internet…while you were on a different continent?"

Trent nodded. "Yeah. So?"

Max shook his head. "It's like when they make a novel out of a movie that was based on a book. Just cut out the middle man, man."

Trent's expression darkened again. "I _thought _you guys would be supportive."

"Yeah," Tiffany agreed, placing her hands on her hips. "You guys would _suck _if you were bras."

Max and Jesse grew very uncomfortable at this allegation, and an exasperated Nick piped up, "Trent, we're real glad that you're making new friends and whatever else, but if you're going to let someone else get involved in the band, we're not gonna take part in it."

"I'm noooooot a Yoko," Tiffany insisted.

"Would it be that bad if you were?" Max wondered aloud. "I mean, she was very good with money. I'm not opposed to someone else handling our finances."

"And if she's _really_ good, I could quit my day job!" Jesse gasped in wonderment.

"Nobody's quitting their day job!" Trent yelled over them. "Tiffany's just gonna try to get us gigs."

Tiffany nodded her head. "I haaaave these connections. I think." She paused. "Maaaaybe they're contacts. Oh well. I can stillll get you shows."

Max and Jesse bobbed their heads happily at this, but Nick crossed his arms.

"We're real _artists_," he countered. "And we don't need some mainstreaming PR chick to try to sell us out."

Tiffany looked crestfallen as she replied, "But I had to work _reeeeeeeally _hard to get my dad to let you play at the tattoo convention."

"Well that's all well and good, but—" Nick froze when he comprehended her last statement. "Wha—wait; did you say _tattoo convention_?"

Max's eyes flashed. "The Mid-Atlantic Tattoo Artistry Convention? _That _one?"

Tiffany seemed perplexed. "Uhhhh, I guess so."

Nick's hand flew to his mouth, and he sputtered, "You don't mean—your dad didn't—we have a _gig _at MATAC?"

Tiffany shrugged. "He coordinates the, like, conventions and stuff her, and since you guys are all alterrrrrrnative, I figured-?"

Max, Nick, and Jesse circled around her and began cheering. Trent gave them a "told you so" smile.

"We'll have to, actually, you know, practice regularly," he reminded them.

"Yeah, I know," Max replied. "But we're playing at MATAC! It's so badass!"

"Yeah, badass!" Jesse intoned happily.

"Hey! Let's get that keg out of the Tank!" Nick suggested.

Max and Jesse responded agreeably, and the trio ran out of the ballroom.

Trent and Tiffany sat down at the edge of the stage, relieved that Tiffany's reception had gone well, if not smoothly.

"Are they gone?" a voice whispered from behind the curtain.

"Yeeeeah." Tiffany playfully kicked the air.

"Sandi…Sandi, get up!"

Trent and Tiffany turned around, and saw Sandi being dragged from behind the curtain.

"We were back there for ten minutes! How did you fall asleep?" Stacy hissed.

Sandi pulled herself free from Stacy, only to fall onto her side, grumbling all the while about her family disturbing her beauty sleep regimen

Trent raised an eyebrow. "Is she okay?"

Stacy kneeled beside her, sighing, "Yeah, probably." She glanced over at Trent. "Would you mind driving us home? There's no way she's making it back by walking."

"I can _still _hear you," mumbled Sandi.

"Shhhhh." Tiffany put a finger to her lips. "Don't panic when we throw you into the backseat, okaaaay?"

Sandi panicked. "The backseat?"

Trent and Stacy hoisted Sandi up while Tiffany rolled her eyes. "And you complain about meeeeeee repeating things like an idiot."

Sandi squirmed about, and, after being carried into the lobby, grudgingly agreed to walk herself to Trent's car.

"Praise the lord," Stacy muttered, rubbing her lower back.

They made their way to the parking lot, where the other members of Mystik Spiral were too busy inside the Tank to notice the outside world.

"That's a reeeeeeeally nice keg," Tiffany remarked, evidently impressed. Stacy and Sandi did not share the sentiment, and plopped themselves into their seats as soon as Trent unlocked the car.

"Tiffany, you don't want to miss your curfew, do you?" Trent asked in exasperation.

"Noooooooooo," she replied, not looking away from the Tank.

Desperate to get home and crawl into her own bed, Sandi barked, "TIFFANY. Get in. NOW."

"Fiiiiiiiine." Tiffany slipped in beside Stacy, who was fervently hoping that Sandi would not be given any further reasons to shout.

"Okay. All aboard," Trent affirmed. The car sputtered, but it pulled out onto the main road without incident, and wound its way up to the rolling, manmade hills of Lawndale's residential sector.


	6. The Frenchman, the Kitsch & the Wardrobe

Quinn threw open the doors to her closet, ignoring how her legs trembled after walking all the way back from the mall.

A handful of striped socks flew out of the wardrobe, followed by a pair of muffin-top-inducing jeans. After only a few minutes, dozens of disposable articles of clothing were spattered across the rose-colored carpet. Quinn sank to the floor and couldn't help admiring the rainbow of cheaply-made fabrics and indecorous sequin creations.

She thought of it as a cleansing experience, tossing half her closet out when it became too untrendy and donating it to some poor, unwitting charity. She was physically separating herself from unpleasant memories and (fashion) mistakes of the past, and with her lightened wardrobe would come a lighter soul.

She always seemed to forget, however, that this was a cyclical process; within a few weeks, she'd be at American Beagle Outfitters, or Urbanite Outfitters, or one of a million other outfitters, throwing tissue-thin t-shirts and the shortest possible skirts she could get away with onto the cashier's counter. Her closet would become cramped again, and she wouldn't be able to bring herself to look at all the clashing textures and colors whirling into some awful portrait of her unalterable habits and flaws.

"Quinn? When did you get home?"

Helen swung the door open and started at the sight of the clothing.

"I _just _cleaned up in here!" She paused, then sheepishly added, "Well, it was more your father doing the cleaning, but there's no reason to be making a mess like this!"

Quinn pulled herself up, quickly muttering "Sorry, they're for donating," and attempted to gather them up into some semblance of organization.

"It's all right," Helen shook her head. "We'll get some garbage bags—if we remembered to get them last time at the grocery." She crossed her arms, trying to wrack her memories. "When _was _the last time we were at the grocery store? I don't think we've gone in a month…Damnit! No wonder Jake's been going out for dinner so much lately-!"

"Uh, Mom," Quinn cut her off, "I'll take care of the clothes myself. You can go back to work, or whatever."

Helen had instinctively reached for the iPhone in her pocket, but she pulled her hand back. "Oh, no, work isn't the most important thing, sweetie." She mustered a smile. "I think we should have a talk."

Quinn blanched, and exclaimed, "I told you, it was that weird goth girl who left the cigarettes at the party, and no one even _tried _them, and—"

Helen raised an eyebrow, and dryly remarked, "You _hadn_'_t _told me that. I actually wanted to talk to you about college."

"Oh." Quinn tucked her hands innocently behind her back, "I guess that's part of the reason I got all those clothes out. You know, if I'm starting out with a clean slate, the stuff I'm bringing with me should be cleaned out, too."

"That's a lovely thought, Quinn," Helen commended her, "but I was thinking in a bit more practical terms."

"Like winter coats and stuff?" Quinn took a few steps toward her bed and sat down, giving her mother a hopeful look.

"_Like_ transportation, safety, finances, and _stuff_," Helen replied. "Northboro is quite a distance away, and Plath College is a very large school."

Quinn brushed off this comment, reminding her mother, "Daria will be up in Massachusetts, too, so if I have an emergency, I can call her."

Helen shook her head again. "Northboro is still several hours from Boston, and having Daria in an emergency is _not _the same as having your parent."

"I _know_," Quinn sighed. "But what do you want me to do? Carry a taser or something with me all the time?"

Helen cracked a smile.

"Don't suggest that to your father," she advised.

"I know." Quinn brought her knees to her chest. "I probably should have thought more about what I'm bringing with me in the fall, but I've been busy with spring break coming up, and this…thing…with my friends."

She looked to Helen, finding herself wishing for once that her mother _would_ pry. Not that one's mother is an ideal confidante, as she told herself, but any opportunity to get the incident at the mall off her chest would be a relief.

Helen's smile grew warmer, and she continued, "I understand, Quinn. I know my senior year was very stressful, and I was going to a small and nearby college." Her eyes narrowed slightly at the thought of Middleton's academic reputation. "You can talk to me anytime, and, I just wanted to make sure that you're certain you're going to the right place."

"Isn't it a little late to change my mind?"

"Well." Helen stopped to consider this. "It might be, but this is a decision that affects the rest of your life! And you _did _have your heart set on Pepperhill."

Quinn shrugged. "None of my friends are going there now, and—I guess when I thought about it, I wanted a school with a little bit of a better reputation for its academics and stuff. For when I want a job, you know?"

Helen seemed relieved by this assertion, and replied, "Oh, of course, and Plath has a very good post-graduate network." She sighed. "It's a beautiful campus, too. I would have liked to go there, but the application process was so rigorous, and my mother wouldn't put up the money…" Her hand suddenly flew to her pocket. "Damn! I think the office is trying to call me." She flashed Quinn a look of apology before bringing her phone to her ear and walking out of the bedroom. "Noooo, Eric, your calls are _always _welcome!"

Careful not to look at the increasingly daunting pile of clothes, Quinn slumped down on her bed and listened as her mother's voice faded off into a far corner of the house. She closed her eyes and let her mind fade to grey.

* * *

"You're not dead! That's good."

With some difficulty, Daria pulled her head up off of the pillow. She squinted her eyes in the direction of the voice, and recognized her roommate.

"Oh…God, Rebecca, I made it back here last night?" she asked groggily.

Her roommate, who was pulling on her sneakers, nodded.

"Well, more like this morning," she admitted. "I was up all night packing for my trip, and you just stumbled up the hall. You're lucky I had to reschedule my flight, or some weirdo could've picked you up."

Although Daria didn't necessarily buy that she had been up all night "packing," she accepted the rest of the explanation and fell back into her bed.

"What were doing last night, anyway?" Rebecca asked, much to the annoyance of Daria, who thought her roommate was on her way out.

"We had a few drinks is all. And then—I remember walking by some bookstore—" Daria's hand brushed against her phone, still in her pocket, and she felt her mouth go dry. "I ran into this guy I knew. And I got his number."

Rebecca looked at her with disappointment. "That's all?"

Daria nodded, and Rebecca began snickering.

"I love how the craziest thing you do after getting drunk is getting some guy's number. That's so lame it, like, transcends lameness."

Daria tucked her head back into her pillow, and, ignoring Rebecca's tittering, asked, "What time is it?"

"Two in the afternoon," she obliged.

"Damnit." Daria threw off her covers and began looking for her glasses on the night stand. "I have to meet Herbert at three."

Rebecca made a face. "That French guy? He's so _creepy_. And he smells like dirty laundry or something."

"You didn't know about that? It's the fashion to smell bad, because it's ironic and cool, like when those trendy twenty-year-olds dye their hair grey."

"Really?" Rebecca's eyes fluttered. "That's really strange." She paused. "This is just hypothetical, but do you think _I _could pull off the grey hair?"

"I think your nose is bleeding," Daria pointed out.

"Oh!" Rebecca grabbed onto her snout and backed out the door. "I guess I'd better, um, run to the restroom!" She shut the door behind her, without the use of her hands, impressively. "See you later!"

"God help you." Daria was left with beautiful, beautiful silence.

Once Daria had pulled on a sweater and pair of cords, she walked briskly out of the dorm and toward the library. She flashed her student ID at the lady in the window, and quickly located the "Arts and Humanities" department.

"He's pretty fashionably late for someone so unstylish," she muttered to herself, taking a seat.

When it became apparent that sitting alone with nothing to do in the library would be unbearable, she found a book off the shelf to read.

"_The Art of Lawn Ornaments_," she read aloud. Her face twitched.

Flipping through the pages, she was increasingly aware of the intricate, grotesque details of the faces of lawn gnomes, but she couldn't pull away, like the time at the zoo when a duck fell into the tiger exhibit.

She glanced up instinctively, and saw Herbert sitting across from her, in all his lovably stout, thin-haired glory, giving her a perplexed look.

She set the book down on its back, and mumbled, "Oh, hi."

"Hello." He seemed to be willing himself not to look at her book. "I must apologize for being late; I was organizing files for Professor Dupuis."

Daria cocked an eyebrow. "That's nice of you. Especially considering you're not her TA or anything."

"She's busy writing for a national journal," he explained, "and I'm helping with her note-taking. I think we're very close to a breakthrough, if we can just close the final connections between Scholasticism and early Islamic philosophy."

Daria nodded firmly, even though she didn't have the vaguest idea what he was talking about.

As he rattled on about some symposium he'd attended in Vancouver, and how it had compelled him to overexert himself in his coursework, Daria looked about the library, and was quite surprised to see that although there was a sizeable group of students diligently at work, none had tried to shush Herbert, or had even shot him a look of annoyance.

She attributed this to the general confusion about his role at the school. His hair had gone prematurely mousey, so he was mistaken for someone older, and his detached attitude with the students at large only aggravated the belief that he was some sort of imported faculty.

"—of course, I warned Ciel that he shouldn't pad his essay by repeating the same rhetoric over and over, but he refused to listen, and he was summarily called out as a fraud." He gave Daria a very somber look. "That is why nobody in my Aesthetics class has doubted my judgment since."

"That was a riveting story," Daria affirmed. "Have you been doing anything over break besides housekeeping for Dupuis?"

"I've been going out at night, and working on my literature and poetry repertoire," replied Herbert. "Just yesterday, I went to a very casual workshop on the structure of Edgar Allen Poe's poetry."

"I went out last night, too." She began to feel embarrassment creeping in. "I've told you about my friend, Jane Lane, right?"

"Oh, yes."

"Well," Daria sighed. "She talked me into going over into this other town, in this old car her parents bought her last year, and we went to a club, and then we got a man to buy us alcohol." She faltered. "And—I think it was a pretty decent time, barring a few incidents. But…something bothers me when I start to think about it."

"Mm-hm."

"I feel like—it's the first time we've spent a lot of time together recently, and I think the only reason we stuck together so long was because we were drinking. And I don't—I don't want a friendship where we have to be inebriated to stand being spending time with each other."

"I see." Herbert was, for the first time that day, at a loss. "It sounds as if there's an unresolved problem."

"I don't know." Daria's face darkened. "There _was, _butI thought it was all settled, and—I don't know. It's just hard to watch a friendship metamorphose or what have you like that."

Herbert nodded his head. "That's very interesting. You know what else is? I'm writing a term paper about the technical differences and similarities between Hugo's poetry and prose, and how these could be applied to works by other multi-talented writers." He smiled broadly. "Professor Rossi thinks it could be submitted for publication!"

Daria nodded and felt her eyes go hazy. She sank into her seat, and considered that, intoxicated or no, having Jane in the library at that very instant would have been greatly appreciated.


End file.
